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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25977502">Arcanic Perturbations</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/silriven/pseuds/silriven'>silriven</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>World of Warcraft</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ballroom Dancing, Collars, M/M, Ravenform, Raventrust Week 2020, Reunion, Spooky But Romantic, Stargazing, Trust, Wrathion is in here too, haunted</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:55:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>14,272</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25977502</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/silriven/pseuds/silriven</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles and prompt fills for Raventrust Week 2020.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Khadgar/Medivh (Warcraft)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Hermit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>August 24th - Attending a Ball Together</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The sky surrounding Krasus’ Landing was crowded with griffins, dragonhawks and every other thing with wings that was capable of bearing a visitor to Dalaran’s streets.  From his spot lurking behind a stone parapet, the great Archmage and Leader of the Kirin Tor had spent several minutes watching Aludane Whitecloud’s slender form dashing to and fro across the mosaic dove tiles, well-toned arms flapping to hold a pair of red and green flags aloft.  Visitors were arriving to join the mages and residents of the fantastical city of Dalaran in celebration of Midsummer.</p><p>An absurd amount of planning from the brightest minds on Azeroth had gone into this night.  Every mage in the city had toiled for countless hours over the past several months to ensure that the festivities would be spectacular.  Decorations were bedazzled with the latest multi-dimensional illumination enchantments.  Miles of spider-fine spellthread had been woven for costumes.  Ancient cooking recipes were unearthed and perfected for candied and frosted samples of long-forgotten flavors.  Not to mention the boundless clusters of committees, of which Khadgar had been dragged into several.  There was the music-planning committee.  The banquet committee.  Of course there was a cleanup and recycling committee.  There was enough alcohol on hand to float an armada of Kul Tiran ships and satiate its crew’s thirst.  There would be an incredible display of fireworks unlike any that the Broken Isles had ever seen.  It was guaranteed to be the social event of not just the current year but perhaps even the next several.</p><p>And Khadgar wanted nothing more than to curl up in his study, preferably with a cup of coffee and a bottle of wine.  With cotton stuffed into both ears.</p><p>The Archmage tore his eyes away from the chaos in the Landing and made his way down the bridge, dragging his feet as he went.  The afternoon sun had begun its descent towards the horizon, rays casting long shadows across the tall jeweled spires of the floating city.  The day’s heat had yet to abate, but both the city’s altitude and the sporadic cooling enchantments strung along the street lamps prevented the atmosphere from becoming too unbearable to its finely-dressed citizens, allowing them to don all kinds of ridiculous layers of frockery.  They lined the streets like butterflies and a few vendors had kept their shops and carts open late just for the occasion.  Aimee’s pastry cart was crowded with a throng of peckish visitors, looking for something sweet to accompany the alcohol they had already begun to sample.  Applebough lurked at the edges, attempting to offer healthier options from the tips of his verdant arms.</p><p>Khadgar had only put forth an elementary-level effort to decorate himself.  The light fabric of his plain ebony robe hung softly over his frame, clasps open in the front to display the modest embroidery of a short-sleeved, high-collar grey tunic and dark-as-the-night indigo breeches.  On his feet, he’d slipped on simple, comfortable leather sandals.  His single crowning feature was an old decorative silver shoulder piece, draped across his back and chest, a kind of gorget made from delicate silver branches and leaves.  Three silver ravens with pearl eyes perched amidst the tangle.  An enchantment caused their wings to occasionally shift and fly them to a different resting spot on his shoulders.</p><p>The Archmage descended down the spiral stairs out onto the cobblestone streets.  Lamp posts and building eaves were strung with garlands of enchanted lavender and white fairy lights that formed a subtle path, designed to funnel guests towards the runed light bridge that connected the main city to a series of floating garden islands which held banquet tables and a dance floor.  Khadgar deftly wove around the slow stream of visitors who lingered to stare either in awe or frozen fear at the ocean, miles and miles down below the clouds beneath their feet.  As he went, the Archmage smiled and greeted familiar faces, champions of the Horde and the Alliance, mages from every other city, shaking hands and dropping vague comments that were mostly complimentary of his colleagues’ tastes in fashion.  </p><p>The dance floor on the main island was already bustling with activity.  A bardic band was enthusiastically laying into their instruments beneath the roof of a white-painted wood gazebo with copper detailing like vines.  Though it was still quite bright out, Khadgar’s trained eyes could make out the presence of more floating white lights, ready to illuminate the island once the sun went down.  Clusters of couples stepped in and out of time to the music, laughing and clapping, the air full of conversation from onlookers who were sampling food and drinks from the tables.</p><p>Khadgar stood alone, staring.  He was debating whether or not to get a drink or to walk past the border of topiary bushes and jump off the edge, when his melancholy thoughts were broken by the firm clasp of a hot hand on his shoulder, accompanied by pricks of sharp claws and the sound of rustling bangles.</p><p>“Earth-Warder,” Khadgar said with a smile, turning to carefully clasp the long hand. “Forgive me, I missed your arrival.”</p><p>“Archmage Khadgar.”  Wrathion returned both the gesture and the smile.  The red smoke from his sharp eyes gave the appearance of being lit on fire in the light of the setting sun. “Your apology is unnecessary.  I am not so arrogant to presume that the presence of a dragon is anything other than ordinary in the fantastical city of Dalaran, or that the Leader of the Kirin Tor himself has better things to do than to sit around waiting for one.”</p><p>Wrathion was dressed in a flowing black and red sleeveless robe and billowing pants, the trim decorated with fine gold thread embroidered in complex geometric patterns.  His thick, angular beard looked freshly cut for the occasion and kohl shadowed the edges of his intense, glowing claret eyes.  A pair of old, slightly-tarnished silver rings hung at the center of his clavicle on a delicate chain, a strange contrast to the bright polished gold bangles decorating his arms.  A matching circlet crowned his long dark hair.  The arcane traces in the air around him responded curiously to his aura, the slow eddies of deep-rooted earth magic giving him a molten yellow halo only detectable to a magus’ eyes in the backlit glow from the setting sun.</p><p>“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Khadgar quipped back, unable to keep the weariness from his voice.  His eyes pricked slightly as he blocked out the intense ethereal currents, turning his focus to the handsome mortal form. “You would need to at least be actively breathing fire and shouting loudly.  Then perhaps you might draw the attention of one or two startled apprentices, depending on how green they are...”</p><p>Khadgar’s gaze tracked across the dance floor, over to where people were milling around the banquet tables that bordered space.  His brows lifted at the sight of Anduin Wrynn, standing opposite Jaina Proudmoore and Kalecgos.  All were clustered in front of a silver dessert table that bore a gushing chocolate fondue fountain and an arcane tree with tiny glasses of maroon port wine perched on its glittering branches.  Relaxed and bathed in the light of Dalaran’s arcane air, the young priest looked transcendent.  His long blond hair hung loose over the shoulders of his wide-necked tunic, the embroidery simple but echoing the pattern on Wrathion’s own.  He wore no jewelry except for a red star ruby sitting on the end of a gold chain that hung in the open collar above his scarred chest.</p><p>What really caught Khadgar’s eye was something sitting in the crook of the priest’s arm.  Khadgar realized it was a child, no more than two or three years in age.  Like Anduin, they were listening intently to Jaina, one small arm clinging to the back of Anduin's neck for support, but something was...off.  The Archmage squinted.  The air about the child was contorted slightly, their small frame haloed by the faintest trace of something that wasn’t quite arcane...but rather…</p><p>Khadgar’s eyes widened.  He turned, mouth agape.  Wrathion stood in profile, gaze trained upon the pair, a look of great affection and warmth across his face.</p><p>“By the Titans.” Khadgar found himself almost at a complete loss for words, unable to keep the wonder and awe from his quiet voice. “How on Azeroth did you do it?”</p><p>Wrathion turned and took a step closer, scooping up the Archmage’s hand and threading it through the hook of his warm, bare arm.</p><p>“I mean no arrogance when I say that it was quite the endeavor,” the dragon said. “I’d be willing to indulge you in the details of the research, Archmage, if you would honor me with a dance…”</p><p>A sudden dark gust blew between them, taking them both by surprise.  Wrathion pulled away, ducking from the sound of beating wings and a strangled, cawing cry.  Khadgar spun around, just barely catching the fleeting forms as they blew through the dance floor, causing several guests to shout and the band to falter.  Laughter soon followed, accompanied by applause, assuming some kind of mage trick.  The drummer kicked up her tempo again and the rest of the musicians soon followed.</p><p>“What <i>was</i> that?” </p><p>The red light from Wrathion’s eyes dimmed as the Aspect squinted in suspicion at the dark, feathery remnants of magic left in the spell’s wake.</p><p>“Oh, more than likely a bored apprentice, trying to show off.”  </p><p>Across the floor, Khadgar caught Kalecgos’ eye.  He gave the Aspect of Magic a reassuring nod that he would deal with it.  Whatever it was.</p><p>“Excuse me, Earth-Warder, I will have to take up your offer at a later time.”</p><p>Khadgar pushed back the tails of his robes as he strode off in the direction of the spell.  He followed the trail across the long, twisting path of a second runed light bridge to a more secluded island, where there were looming forests of topiary bushes and mazes of painted gazebos.  Everything was designed to precision with the intent of encouraging couples to engage in intimate conversation while they admired the sky.  Khadgar stepped into the shadows of the tall bushes, pupils widening in an attempt to take in more light.  The traces in the air were wispy, like spiderwebs of bird’s down.  Though he could no longer see the horizon, the path stretched far beyond where the boundaries of the grass island should have ended.  Instinct tugged at a corner of his brain, urging him to turn back, just as he turned a corner and found himself out on a landing where a small fountain and stone benches overlooked the sunset.</p><p>“So beautiful.”</p><p>Khadgar turned to find a tall man staring directly back at him through the holes in a black satin mask that obscured the upper half of his face.  His dress would be more appropriate for a winter’s ball, donning a bell-sleeved tunic, knee-high silver trimmed boots, and a feathered half-shouldered cape.  The collar of his tunic swept deep towards his waist, showing a great deal of his chest including a jagged dark scar where his heart would be.  Around his neck was tied a thick black ribbon, bordered with lace.  He carried an arcane pink rose in one bare hand, dust falling from its satin petals, his nails painted as black as his clothing.  The border of his frame was tinged with an unearthly blue glow that would not have been seen by a pair of untrained mortal eyes.</p><p>“Good evening, Medivh,” Khadgar greeted the magus without ceremony, his voice leaden as if he were beginning a speech he had given on a thousand too many occasions prior.</p><p>The former guardian took two steps forward, the silver heels of his tall boots clicking against the cobblestones, flourishing the rose.  </p><p>“What are you doing here?” Khadgar ignored the blossom, staring warily back, as if he did not expect a satisfactory answer to this question.</p><p>“What am I doing here? Why is anyone here?”  With a gesture of his unoccupied hand, a purple card unfolded itself in mid-air, supported by the same glow that haloed the former guardian. “I received an invitation, of course.”</p><p>“You did not,” Khadgar retorted.  With a wave of his own thin hand, the ridiculous stationary disappeared as if it were only made of vapor. “There were no such invitations.”</p><p>“I heard there was to be a magnificent party,” Medivh tried again with a shrug, flicking the rose stem as if it were a wand. “That the wondrous and magical city of Dalaran has supposedly opened its fantastical gates to all of Azeroth on this dreamy midsummer’s night.  I felt compelled to break my isolation and investigate.”</p><p>Khadgar turned around, crossing his arms to watch the sunset.  He had already missed most of it, the air growing noticeably cooler. “Surely Dalaran’s festivities pale in comparison to even one night in Karazhan’s halls.”</p><p>The Archmage’s hackles bristled as he heard Medivh take a step closer, bringing with him the scent of incense and ash.</p><p>“It matters not where the location is.”  A hot gust of air brushed by Khadgar’s ear, the words close enough to be detectably strange in nature, as if their speaker were transmitting them through the curtain of a veil. “It is not the superlativeness of the revelry that I seek.”</p><p>Khadgar brushed the words away as he had the paper illusion. “Enough of this foolishness, return me to the mortal realm at once.”</p><p>The Archmage stepped back into the topiary maze and at once felt the frame of the world shift around him.  He only had to turn one corner this time before he stood at the foot of the enchanted bridge, ready to cross over.  A fisherman seated by the pond turned his head, lifting the brim of his straw hat to squint at Khadgar as he marched back to the tertiary island, the ghost of Azeroth’s last Guardian at his heels.</p><p>“Sandals, my apprentice?” the Archmage heard the voice, hounding him. “Really?  Have I truly taught you nothing, or do you mean to mock my memory?”</p><p>“I did not dress for you,” Khadgar shouted, drawing stares from several onlookers who surely saw him yelling only to himself. “I mean only to make a polite showing and then retire early.”</p><p>“Hmph.  How typical, I am disappointed that you are determined more than ever to act your physical age.”</p><p>Khadgar swept through the trellis gateway, now blossoming with curls of opal moonflowers.  The planet’s rotation had hidden the sun and the dance floor was now illuminated with gentle currents of floating lights.  A slow song emanated from the band’s deft hands.  In a far out-of-the-way corner of the floor, Khadgar spotted Wrathion arm-in-arm with Anduin, not quite dancing, but swaying in place.  Wrathion’s head tipped forward to rest against the priest’s shoulder.  Anduin tilted his own cheek to meet him.</p><p>“Well, look at that,” Medivh observed, craning his neck to stare as they rushed past. “Good for them.  I’m so glad it worked out.  Just between you and me, I was starting to get worried…”</p><p>“Medivh, please, leave them be.”</p><p>The former Guardian huffed, thrusting his chin out with indignance as he raised his voice. “Am I no longer allowed to show concern for the mortals and dragons of Azeroth simply because I cannot walk amongst them in the full flesh…?” </p><p>“<i>Medivh.</i>”</p><p>“Khadgar!”</p><p>Archmage Modera now blocked the way off the island to the mainland, beaming at him.  Her cheeks were flushed and she floating a glass of arcane white wine between the elegantly crooked fingers of one satin-gloved hand.  Her dress was made of fluttering butterfly wings and was both breath-takingly beautiful and slightly disturbing to look at for too long.  Her silver hair crowned with a faint ring of orbiting stars.</p><p>“So wonderful to see you out and about!” she declared. “I was certain that you would spend this evening hiding in one of the libraries.”</p><p>
It was Khadgar’s turn to huff with indifference, though his nerves pricked. “Nonsense.  Whatever gave you that idea?”</p><p>Modera chortled and to Khadgar’s horror, Modera responded, the sound directing her gaze over his silver spauldored shoulder.</p><p>“Oh, Khadgar, forgive me!  Would you please introduce me to your guest?”</p><p>Khadgar’s heart lurched, the fear nearly dropping his jaw.  He cast a figurative glance backwards, sending a rare, frantic prayer to the Light that he only communed with in times of great danger that there was more than one being who stood behind him.</p><p>His prayers went unanswered.</p><p>“Oh,” Khadgar said, groping to find some…<i>any</i>…explanation. </p><p>“Just call me Markl, pleased to make your acquaintance, Archmage.”  To Khadgar’s horror, Medivh  extended a hand, which Modera accepted.  The former Guardian laid a kiss upon the back of her hand. “I am an apprentice to dear Khadgar.”</p><p>Khadgar felt heat rise to his face, hidden in the strange shadows cast by the party lights.  Modera did not seem to notice that her hand had just been kissed by a ghost, one of the stranger ghosts to roam the plains of Azeroth.</p><p>“I’ll leave you to it, then,” she said with a smile that made Khadgar wish he would melt into the floor.  Preferably all the way through it, so that he could then fall to his death. “I will see you tomorrow, Archmage.  Hopefully, if enough of the Council can rouse themselves.”</p><p>“I look forward to it,” Khadgar replied, weakly.</p><p>He stared straight ahead, at the lavender and blue lights of the city, not able to summon the courage to watch her walk away.  A gentle hand cupped his elbow, once again bringing the smell of arcane salt and death.</p><p>“May I?”</p><p>Khadgar let the hand move to his wrist, assisting to thread those fingers with his.  They felt warm enough, as though somewhere at the core of the circulatory system contained beneath, there was a beating heart pumping blood through the veins.  Khadgar raised his chin with a defiant hum and let his hand settle on the broad shoulder, beneath the soft feather collar of the half-cape.</p><p>As if on cue, the band struck up a peculiar waltz.  It sounded quite unlike the other music on the band’s repertoire, but Khadgar had only a moment to wonder if it was real before Medivh swept him towards the dance floor.  </p><p>It took only a couple of rounds for Khadgar to find his footing, dusting off the memory from his creaking limbs.  He fell in step with Medivh’s periodic turns, responding to each gentle push and pull at his waist.  It was like winding a well-oiled clock that had lain untouched in a closet for decades.  The heat rushed to Khadgar’s face as, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed stares from the others on the floor.  Medivh led them in an orbit that traversed both through and around the dance floor, ensuring that they would miss no one’s attention.  The music swelled and dipped in waves, occasionally with just the faintest hint of scratching and crackling, like it was coming through one of the gnomish phonographs.  Medivh’s aura no longer bore the sickly death-like teal it had on the bridge.  He felt solid and real, just as any other mortal whom Khadgar interacted with in Dalaran, sure beneath Khadgar’s hands.</p><p>“You seem tired, my apprentice,” the former Guardian noted.  His expression was unreadable as ever, though his voice was sincere.</p><p>“It is my default state of mind, these days,” Khadgar responded.</p><p>Medivh let out a contemplative hum. “One would think the departure of the Burning Legion would have eased at least some burden from your mind.”</p><p>“The Burning Legion,” Khadgar sighed. “The Horde and Alliance in and out of war.  The Old Gods.  If it isn’t one threat on or underneath Azeroth, it’s another from the sky.”</p><p>Medivh nodded, then paused to guide Khadgar through a slow spin under his arm.</p><p>“The show must go on,” the former Guardian said, deftly catching the Archmage’s hand again. “The players will grow weary without a new chapter in Azeroth’s never ending saga.”</p><p>Khadgar scoffed. “Do not speak to me in metaphors.  I cannot imagine what masochistic cosmic entity would actually enjoy having to endure this endless repetition of conflict.”</p><p>Medivh looked thoughtful as he spun and dipped.  Khadgar let himself fall backward, weight shifting from his feet, trusting that the firm hand on his back would not choose to dissipate in that exact moment.</p><p>“Oh, you would be surprised,” the former Guardian said lightly as he guided Khadgar’s weight back on his feet with a deft pull. “It does pain me to see you, still so young, feel this way.  Your career is only getting started, yet you’ve already burnt yourself out.”</p><p>The music came to an end, and all movement on the dance floor ceased as the participants roused an enthusiastic round of applause.  With most eyes turned towards the band, watching them take their bows, Medivh lifted Khadgar’s hand, bringing it close to his nose as if it were a rose to smell.</p><p>“It would please me greatly if you could find some respite in the Tower,” he said, quietly, before laying a kiss upon the back of Khadgar’s palm. “You are a welcomed guest, never an interloper, my dearest Trust.”</p><p>The Archmage felt his expression soften, his guard drop just a bit.  A thousand different perturbations of words to describe the same, complicated feeling in his breast flitted through his mind as he silently regarded the other magus.  Medivh patiently gazed back for a moment.</p><p>A loud burst and a flash started Khadgar into whipping his head around.  His pounding heart settled at the sight of the first round of fireworks ramping up over the crest of Dalaran’s spires.  When he turned around, he found himself standing alone in the crowd once again, as a shower of purple and red fell down in the shadows around him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Fool</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>August 25th - Trust / Collar</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The halls of Karazhan were difficult to maneuver even with one’s senses fully intact.  Blindfolded and unskilled in compensating with the other senses, it should have been impossible.  The tower’s architecture never stayed quite the same to either its denizens or its guests.  No matter how many times one tried to keep to the same path from a bedchamber to the kitchen, something, big or small, would be off.  Perhaps the hallway would be three-quarters of an inch wider.  Or a staircase changed direction mid-flight in the space it took to blink.  Doorways would flip or rotate themselves when one’s back was turned.  Rooms swapped themselves without reason or warning, sometimes with mortals or ghosts still inside them.  Making the journey from one point in the tower to another, be it to the library, the game room, or the servant’s quarters, required steady nerves and a strong dose of determination.  Khadgar would never have gambled with attempting such a feat without his vision if not for two things: goading from his former master and the presence of a guiding leash attached to a leather collar buckled around his neck.</p><p>“How much further is this climb?” Khadgar asked.</p><p>A voice responded, simultaneously reverberating from everywhere at once and nowhere at all:</p><p>“Do you require rest already?” the voice mocked. “I thought that body of yours would be just a bit hardier than this, perhaps .”</p><p>Khadgar scoffed, the fabric blindfold tugging at his eyes as he rolled them.  He was not stupid enough to admit that he was bored, his mind wandering to unfinished problems waiting for him in his study.</p><p>“I do not require rest.  I am merely curious and impatient,” he chose as his response, instead. “Some of us have other things to do today than tormenting mages for our own amusement.”</p><p>“Ah, very well.  I suppose this room will be as suitable as any other.”</p><p>Khadgar heard the sound of an iron bolt flip and a door handle clack against wood as it dipped, creaking hinges groaning a query: <i>will you enter?</i>  He turned towards the noise before he felt a guiding tug from the leash and stepped through what felt like a doorway.  The echoing hum of the narrow, winding staircase cut off into silence.  He did not even hear the door shut behind him, but somehow he knew that the hallway he had just come from would be difficult to return to.  The hair on the back of the Archmage’s neck stood up.  He was uncertain of the shape and size of the room.  It felt like a cavern, but it could have just as easily been a small sitting room.  His steps made no echo.  There was no other sound, no pitch from the walls, to be gained.</p><p>The tip of his boot fell through the floor, signaling the presence of a hole...or a pit.  The Archmage’s hands, bound in rope behind his back, strained at their coarse bindings as he wobbled on unsteady boots.</p><p>“Is all of this all really necessary?” he asked, tiredly.</p><p>Medivh’s voice chortled from beyond, circling from one ear to the other.</p><p>“You were not so bold to ask that question all those years ago.”</p><p>“I was hardly in the position to question your methods,” Khadgar retorted. “Back then.”</p><p>“True.”</p><p>Medivh’s voice solidified, as if he had stepped through some sort of barrier between them.  A cold gust enveloped the Archmage’s thin limbs, prompting him to shudder.</p><p>“The puzzle now lies before you.  The game is the same as ever: can you make your way across the room without making a most grievous misstep?”</p><p>“Certainly,” Khadgar replied. “Now, as ever.  And you would never actually allow me to fall to my death.”</p><p>“Oh, on the contrary, I most certainly will.  Who am I to keep the greatest living mage on Azeroth from an entertainingly embarrassing and ironic fate?”</p><p>Khadgar shrugged and used one foot to feel around, finding a spot that was able to support his weight.  A tingle ran up his leg through his heel, signaling the presence of some kind of arcana worked into the ground.  A distant tinge of fear blossomed behind the base of his sternum as it occurred to him that a film of a spell was most likely the only barrier that kept his feet from being pulled into an abyss by gravity.  </p><p>He continued to take careful steps, guided by the subtle tugs of the leash and his own toes finding purchase on stable platforms.  The darkness of the blindfold was absolute; he could not discern any kind of light from a rune or fire.  His limbs had gone cold some time ago from the absence of proper heat; Karazhan absorbed the chill from the depths of winter in the Deadwind Pass.  It wouldn’t be long before his fingers would grow numb, then his toes.  Then...well, it wasn’t as if his joints had seized up before under far more perilous circumstances.</p><p>Khadgar swayed, having almost stepped off a segment where the path made an abrupt hairpin turn.  A deep, cackling chuckle resonated directly in his ear, the collar pulling him backward, pressing against his throat.  The leather felt curiously warm, as if a hand were cupped around it.  He continued to walk, following a loop that turned into a steep incline.  He surely was no longer in a single room, but a tunnel, ascending and descending through different portions of the nether-space fabric that enveloped the tower since its creation.</p><p>At last, the tip of his nose bumped into some kind of barrier, signaling that he had successfully traversed the path.  Khadgar felt the trace of something which felt very much like fingers running through his hair.  He exhaled and tipped his head upward, into the gesture.</p><p>“Well done, Young Trust.”</p><p>The knot on the blindfold loosened and the ring of fabric fell around his neck.  Khadgar spent a moment blinking in the dim, golden light, struggling to bring two crimson ovals into focus.  He found himself in the middle of the Upper Library, where a fire was burning in the vast mangle.</p><p>Khadgar realized that he was staring directly into the face of Wrathion, who sat cross-legged in a large armchair opposite him.  A glass of whiskey was raised halfway to the dragon’s open mouth.  He was dressed in a simple white and gold tunic with soft, billowing pants, looking as though he had been quite relaxed before a mage had materialized on the ornate rug that lay before him.</p><p>“...are you well, Archmage?” the dragon asked, tentatively lowering the glass.  His smoking, ruby gaze was unwavering and laced with concern. “Do you require assistance?”</p><p>“No.”  With a silent incantation, Khadgar cut the ropes binding his wrists, the rope disintegrating into embers and ash before it hit the floor. “Thank you.”</p><p>Wrathion nodded, though his brows furrowed, a tell-tale sign that he was preparing to ask or say a great deal more.  Thankfully for once, though, he held his forked tongue.  Still, Khadgar’s face burned red as he turned and exited the chamber, the dragon’s eyes boring into his back.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Ten of Cups</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>August 26th - Ravenform</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Khadgar carried two steaming hot mugs through the upper library of Karazhan.  A thin arcane shield insulated his sturdy hands from the hot, hand-molded ceramic.  On this lethargic autumn day, the Archmage had abandoned his formal robes and armor for a thick, gray cable-knit sweater, comfortable modern trousers, and his favorite worn sheepskin slippers.  Not that it mattered.  Any day in Karazhan was much like another, quiet and without visitors.  Tucked away in the cradle of Deadwind Pass, far from the broiling turmoil of the Horde and Alliance’s Fourth War, Khadgar seldom found reasons to adhere to the Kirin Tor dress code anymore. Snide critiques from the more fashion-conscious ghosts could be easily brushed away, considering they were now several decades out of date and, of course, it was hard to be made embarrassed by an entity who was no longer living and had lost touch with the concept of laundry.  It did not escape any ghost’s notice that the sweater was a hair too big, nor that the length of the baggy sleeves fell past his knuckles.</p><p>The Upper Library was a favorite hideaway.  Its weighted, golden silence was seldom spoiled; haunted by only the quietest of ghosts that slipped between the dark wooden shelves.  Sometimes Khadgar would look up to find one watching from a distance with discerning eyes, but such looks were harmless.  Khadgar trod a familiar path to the center of the main room, where the candles in the vaulted ceilings overlooked a narrow reading area filled with long, wooden tables and soft armchairs before a great, crackling fireplace.  He spotted his much younger guest, the only other living being within the halls of Karazhan, slumped over in a seat at a table close to the mantle.  Spread out all around him was not one but several weighty tomes.  Their thin yellow pages bore grisly accounts from psychotic mortals of ruinous encounters with what may or may not have been traces of the Old Gods that lurked somewhere beneath Azeroth’s surface.  </p><p>As if protecting a precious child, Wrathion’s lithe arms were folded around the thick book he had been drowning in when Khadgar left to fetch the coffee.  His long, dark hair spilled across both the pages and his bony wrists, the ends falling dangerously close to the thick wax candles that dripped unceremoniously over the grooved wooden surface.  Crisp, fresh pieces of parchment were also strewn around him, a goose-feather quill drying between his clawed fingers, the hovering tip staining a page with dark droplets.</p><p>Khadgar set one of the mugs down nearby, not close enough to be knocked should the dragon flinch or stretch his arms in his seat upon waking.  He carefully plucked the dirty quill from the limp claws and slipped it back into the waiting inkwell.  With his newly freed hand, Khadgar performed a series of gestures while murmuring a trivial incantation that conjured a thick, knitted afghan around the dragon’s shoulders.  Wrathion sighed with contentment in his sleep, shifting to rest the opposite cheek on the open pages, his bright, golden hoop earrings catching glints of candlelight.  For a brief moment, Khadgar let his palm rest gently on the dragon’s shoulder, soaking in its warmth, before he took off towards the windows with the second mug of coffee.</p><p>The Archmage returned to his preferred reading spot, nestled in a corner of an octagonal window bench.  He fluffed the old, dusty pillows that he had arranged in a sort of nest, using a small charm to stiffen them in a way that would precisely support his sore lower back.  Outside, a rainstorm had just passed over the tower, so he opened the windows surrounding the seat to let in the cool, damp breeze.  Reclining amongst the pillows, Khadgar could contemplate the yellow and pink rays of the mid-afternoon sun spilling over the horizon of Deadwind Pass.  The dark, reaching silhouettes of gaunt trees rustled in the wind as spectres of long-dead servants milled about the grounds, warily studying the changes in atmosphere even though they were no longer affected by the presence of raindrops.  </p><p>Khadgar took a sip of coffee.  It was sweetened with some whipped cream from the ice box and a dusting of cinnamon on top.  He placed the mug down upon the tabletop and sat with one hand thoughtfully curled near his chin, a book open and idle in his lap as he regarded the outside world.</p><p>A dip in the seat cushion beside him; his heart fluttered at the feeling of familiar warmth by his side.  A bearded chin came to rest on his shoulder, accompanied by the faint halo of ghostly green just in the corner of one eye.</p><p>“What problems have you been mulling over, Archmage Khadgar?”</p><p>Khadgar shifted, leaning into the body heat as much as he dared.  Goosebumps prickled at the back of his neck at the familiar voice.</p><p>“Time,” he said, after a moment.</p><p>Khadgar reached for what he hoped would be a tangible body, but his knobby fingers only groped at empty air, the air by his side cold once again.  A cooing noise reverberated near his left ear, followed by the weight of hefty talons pricking at his shoulder.  He turned his head and caught the sight of an ebony raven, peering back at him with one beady, amber eye.</p><p>A distant synapse buried deep in Khadgar’s mind informed him that he should feel some sort of surprise in this, but he simply couldn’t muster the energy.  Instead, he turned his hand and raised it to the raven’s breast, stroking the brown-and-ebony down feathers with the knuckle of his thumb.  The raven responded with a pleased coo, beak jittering with its small caws of thanks.  Khadgar felt the fluttering of a small but strong heart beating through the fragile, bony rib cage underneath.</p><p>Medivh stretched his wings, beating up dust and stirring the wind in Khadgar’s wispy silver bangs.  Unblinking, Khadgar cleared his throat and took another sip of coffee, licking the sweet spice from his lips as he resumed reading.  The raven’s feet picked their way to the center of his back and Khadgar leaned forward to accommodate him, stretching out his neck.  Medivh began to dip his beak forward, murmuring to himself as he plucked through clusters of soft, gray hair.</p><p>“Is this really necessary?” Khadgar whispered.</p><p>“<b>No,</b>” the raven replied.</p><p>Khadgar sighed.  Despite himself, he was enjoying the small pecks and scratches from the beak, nuzzling his scalp as Medivh worked his way from the base of one ear to the other.  The sound of the raven’s heartbeat and softly rustling feathers soothed him as he read.  Khadgar’s eyelids grew heavy and he contemplated turning his thick book into a pillow, the way the dragon had done.</p><p>“<b>Come fly with me.</b>”</p><p>Khadgar let out an inquiring hum.  His ears filled with the sound of beating wings and almost immediately, he found himself missing the small weight as it traveled to perch instead upon the windowsill.  The small head cocked to the side, continuing to stare with a not quite human gaze.</p><p>“Ah,” Khadgar said, softly. “You know I am wary of that kind of magic.  It should only be used in times of great emergency.”</p><p>The raven stared back, gaze unfaltering.</p><p>“<b>What harm would one turn about the tower cause?  Surely the great Leader of the Kirin Tor is not so weak-willed that he would forget how to change back after a mere hour with feathers on his skin?</b>”</p><p>Khadgar sighed and took two large swallows of coffee, knowing that the next time he returned to the drink it would be cold.  He marked his page with a conjured streak of ribbon and shut the soft fabric cover.  With an exhale, he shed his mortal skin, listening to the painless sound of crunching bone as his skeleton contorted and changed.  The grey sweater pooled around him.  He spread his arms into their full wingspan, white feathers unfurling.  With a series of carefully executed hops, he joined Medivh on the windowsill, blue, unblinking eyes gazing back at the amber ones with a new clarity.</p><p>Medivh lurched through the opening, black wings barely flapping as he was swept in an updraft.  Not about to be outdone, Khadgar tumbled after him.  The wind had already come and gone, though, and so he immediately tumbled towards the ground, dark brick outer walls flying past.  A few quick flaps sent the white raven careening upward, and he shot after the dark smudge traversing across the gray, cloudy sky.</p><p>Karazhan spiraled around them as they flew, dipping and weaving through the wind.  Old ghosts peered back at them through the windows, signs of stars and wayward spells sparking within.  The wind blasted Khadgar’s feathers, sending a thrill down his shortened spine.  Some uncanny combination of instinct and practice took hold of his limbs and he soon surpassed Medivh, launching himself over the very peak of the tower.  He hurtled downwards, letting himself spiral unencumbered by anything except gravity.  The ground rushed towards him, but with a twitch of his wings he launched himself upwards again.  With a tilt, he glided over the roofs of the stables and out across the rocky cliffs.  Medivh followed like a curious dark shadow, copying his movements in a strange dance.</p><p>When Khadgar felt as if his heart would burst from exhaustion, he reached out and took hold of the rough boughs of a rotting tree with his talons, bobbing until he came to rest.  He cooed in relief and ruffled his feathers in the cold air, using his beak to comb them.  A familiar form came to rest not far from his perch.  Medivh shifted, creeping up towards him along the branch until his own slender raven’s body settled next to his.  Khadgar let out an indulgent sigh as he felt the body heat from the dark raven press against him.  He tipped his small, white head forward to once again invite the preening of Medivh’s black beak.  After Medivh had cleaned him, they nestled together and watched the candles in Karazhan’s windows light up one by one in the setting sun.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Two of Pentacles</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>August 27th - Haunted</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Come to Kul Tiras, the Lord Admiral and ex-leader of the Kirin Tor had said in her letter to the Council of Six.  Autumn is the perfect time of year to enjoy Stormsong Valley, when the rolling green hills are ripe with the harvest’s bounty.  It will be fun, she had said.  Those were her exact words.</p><p>“Why must we traverse these provincial towns?” Medivh complained, bitterly, broad shoulders raised to his red-chapped ears, large hands hidden deep within his felt coat’s silk-lined pockets. “Wouldn’t Drustvar be more appropriate for this time of year?  I hear that the Waycrest family has opened their manor to tours…”</p><p>“Drustvar,” Khadgar scoffed, flashing a kind smile at the woman who was tending to the roasted nuts cart.  He accepted the red-and-white-checkered paper cone from her hand, filled to the brim with shelled warm pecans coated in a candied cinnamon-sugar mixture. “Not unless one has a death wish.  I would not willingly tangle with the strain of old magic that thrives there…”</p><p>“Bah,” Medivh wrinkled his nose in frustration, glaring down the end of his hawkish nose when Khadgar offered him the cone. “Where has your sense of adventure gone?”</p><p>“Into the abyss, along with my youth,” Khadgar replied, wryly, as he snatched up a cluster and blew on it before tossing it into his mouth. “Come, now, surely you can say that at least this is preferable to spending every single day of the year holed away in Deadwind Pass.”</p><p>Medivh snorted as they struck off down the path again. “Karazhan has more personality within its bare bricks than any one of these backwater--”</p><p>“<i>Medivh</i>,” Khadgar scolded, quickly glancing over one shoulder and then the other to check if anyone was within hearing range.  “The Pass barely has <i>seasons</i>.”</p><p>“It does so.  The...trees become less skeletal in the spring and summer.  And there is usually snow in the winter.”</p><p>Khadgar shook his head, smiling to himself as he tossed a handful of pecans into his mouth.  He was enjoying the crisp, cool autumn air, just cold enough for a coat, even for one who was suffering from poor, artificially-accelerated aging.  Brennadam was teeming with market stalls and every farmer had their gates open, practically begging visitors to come take their pumpkins and squash away.  Khadgar had tucked three of them away in the infinite dimensional satchel he kept slung over one shoulder.  He couldn’t recall the last time he had gotten his hands dirty carving a proper, salt-of-the-earth jack o’ lantern.  Karazhan would be the perfect place to display them, they would look charming in the library with small wax candles burning inside to illuminate whatever gruesome expressions he chose to carve.</p><p>“Well then, if you’re itching for adventure, let’s go explore,” Khadgar said, stepping off the road and up the grassy bank of a hill.</p><p>“I wish to see something interesting or noteworthy, not to soil our boots,” Medivh protested, a moment before casting a charm over his shoes and striking off after his old apprentice.</p><p>At the crest of the hill was a graveyard.  By the time Medivh reached the top, Khadgar had already stepped over the low brick wall and was weaving between the old tombstones.</p><p>“Khdagar,” he said, abruptly.</p><p>The Archmage stopped walking and turned around. “Yes?”</p><p>“...we ought to go somewhere else.”</p><p>Khadgar stared for a moment.  He stood in between two stone obelisks, each bearing an unblinking face of a different woman framed by wings.  Someone had scratched the word <i>sinner</i>, as if with a fingernail or a bone, at the base of one below the dates of birth and death.</p><p>“Why not?” Khadgar cocked his head to one side, looking puzzled.  He crumpled the sticky remains of the paper cone between his hands and slipped it into his cloak pocket. “The dead appreciate company sometimes, too.  What is the point of having a tombstone if there is no one living to pay their respects?”</p><p>Medivh did not move.  He stood as still as any of the statues, the breeze taking with it long wisps of his dark hair.</p><p>“Is this a ghost concern?” Khadgar asked, brows furrowed. “Are you not allowed to trespass in a graveyard that isn’t yours?”</p><p>“...no, although, it is likely not a good idea.”</p><p>“I’m trying to understand.  What is it that you see, Medivh?”</p><p>The former Guardian studied Khadgar for a moment.  A thrumming honeybee drifted about his ears, but the magus did not seem concerned.  In the afternoon sunlight, a faint blue-green glow could be seen around his profile.</p><p>“The dead are clustering around you,” Medivh said after a while. “Their hands are upon your limbs.”</p><p>Khadgar looked down.  He saw nothing.  He felt nothing.</p><p>“...well,” he said, slowly. “I suppose we could go back, I’d still like to see if it’s not too late to go on a hayride…”</p><p>Khadgar’s speech was abruptly cut off as he was yanked down into the ground.  The chilled dirt and gravel engulfed him like quicksand, scraping chunks of his face before he threw up a shield.  He barely had time to cry out in surprise before he found himself lying flat on his back, struggling to see through the darkness, pupils still constricted from being out in the daylight.  His arms shot out.  To his great relief, instead of the sturdy sides of a coffin, he found plenty of cold air and his left knuckles brushed against wet stone.  With a single word, a handful of light flames now sat in the cup of one palm, casting warm, yellow shadows over the grimy walls.  He was sitting in some kind of tunnel. </p><p>Something in the darkness wept.</p><p>Before he could think to address the source of the noise, Khadgar felt a tickle on his left temple.  He brushed his fingers across his forehead and realized it was a small stream of dirt.  The Archmage barely managed to tumble out of the way before the ceiling caved in. After much coughing and sputtering, Medivh emerged from the mess.</p><p>The former Guardian unfolded himself, face streaked with dirt, uselessly brushing off his now dirt-caked sleeves.  He looked at Khadgar with a flat expression.  His ghostly aura was stark, illuminating the clouds of dust and dirt drifting through the air.</p><p>“You were right,” Khadgar struggled around coughs, holding up his hands in surrender.  “I apologize.  Thank you for coming after me.”</p><p>Medivh said nothing, grinding his teeth.  He then shook his head and extended a hand and pulled the Archmage to his feet.  Medivh took Khadgar’s face in his long, bony hands, brushing dirt away with his thumbs.  After a moment, he lay a gentle kiss on the silver-haired man’s lips.</p><p>“Do not be foolish,” Medivh murmured. “You are very precious to me.  I would never let you be taken from me in this way.”</p><p>He released Khadgar’s face and proceeded to check the mortal’s shoulders, arms, sides, and legs.  Once assured that nothing was out of place or broken, Medivh spread his palms and extended the halo of cold blue-green light enveloping his silhouette, revealing stacks of skulls and stone coffins in the walls. </p><p>“Looks to be catacombs,” Khadgar said, grimly, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “Under the emerald hills of Stormsong, who would have thought.”</p><p>Medivh stared down the yawning mouth of darkness.  He did not blink for several minutes and when Khadgar attempted to break the silence, he merely held a hand up in a plea for silence.  Khadgar paced instead, attempting to discern the date and the age of some of the graves.  There seemed to be no pattern to them.</p><p>“These run through the entirety of Kul Tiras,” Medivh said, at last.</p><p>“Well,” Khadgar sighed, staring up at the hole in the ceiling.  A pinprick of light was somewhere at the top. “I suppose we had best leave, then.”</p><p>“Yes,” Medivh said, still staring down the tunnel. “That would be wise.”</p><p>Khadgar shifted, white feathers rustling and face lengthening as his body contorted and shrank.  He perched on a cracked brick, shuffling his scaly feet, while he waited for Medivh to follow.  A moment later, two ravens spiraled upward through the skylight, climbing higher and higher, dodging stray tree roots.  Time was difficult to track, but it seemed to Khadgar that they flew upwards for well over an hour.  His wings ached and his small heart felt likely to beat itself to exhaustion, when suddenly they both emerged into a grey, blistering chill.</p><p>Khadgar landed with a soft thud, wrapping his arms around him as he stood up, shivering.  He stared, puffs of cold condensation floating about his nose and mouth.  A moment later, after circling the area, Medivh settled beside him, his black boots crunching in the foot-high layer of snow on the ground.  Brennadam’s fields had been stripped bare, the straw and gourd harvest decorations traded for Winter Veil lights and evergreen wreaths.</p><p>“Well, then,” Khadgar said, cheerfully, rubbing his gloved hands together. “Shall we find a tavern?  I could go for a nice, hot mug of cocoa.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Nine of Wands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>August 28th - Stargazing</p><p>Content warning for some gore, violence, alcohol, and perilous situations.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The constant drip of greased fel thrummed in the back of Khadgar’s mind like a nagging bardic tune.  He hadn’t been so tormented by a sound since the early days of his first apprenticeship, when all he could afford was a one-room apartment above a tavern and had to sleep with cotton in his ears to drown out the constant music of lyres and drums coming up through the thin floorboards.  The apartment smelled better, at least, and he would have gladly traded the rotten scent of sulfur that now clogged his nose for the domestic odor of persistent mildew.</p><p>Khadgar sighed and knocked the back of his head against the stone wall, against the rhythm of the drip.  When he opened his eyes, he could make out the shape of the dungeon cell in the peculiar yellow-green light of the fel leaking through the crack in the ceiling and pooling on the floor near his outstretched boot.  He would have to remember to move that foot before the next time he nodded off, it wouldn’t be long before the boundary of the puddle would begin to eat at his leather heel.  It was a proper cell, at that, he had to give the Burning Legion credit.  There was not one but two mortal skeletons chained up the way he was, wrists raised above their heads, that still smelled of rotten flesh.  The walls were coated in a variety of molds and the damp, thick air sat in the back of Khadgar’s throat like a cold.  Occasionally the cell would heat up like an oven and the fel from the ceiling would thicken and flow faster, but Khadgar could not discern the reason why.  Frequently, Khadgar would turn his head to find the lone shadow standing by the bars of the cell, silhouetted by the torchlight in the hallway, looking inside with gaunt, fel-laden eyes.</p><p>To stave off the boredom and keep the blood from the long gash in his temple from dripping into his eyes Khadgar tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling.  The fel drips and stains dotted the wood in strange patterns not unlike constellations, and he’d begun to give them names.  There was a lopsided oval with spokes that he decided was round enough to be a Violet Eye.  North of that was A’dal, a familiar angular splatter.  Cradling A’dal was a long, thin winding smear he determined must be the Northshire River.  Perhaps it was just the pervasive scent of fel and the dread of his captors addling the scope of his imagination, but leaping over the River was something he swore was a horned beast with wings that could have been Illidan.  </p><p>Something was coming down the hall. Whatever it was, it sounded loud.  And quick.  Khadgar flinched and braced himself.  He clenched his fists in the iron shackles and drew his knees up towards his chest, squinting at the iron-barred door with anticipation.</p><p>The entire cell wall around the door blew open.  After Khadgar had gained control of his coughing, through burning, tear-smeared eyes he could just make out the chaos before him.  The door was the only thing left standing, still locked in the reinforced frame, two gargantuan holes now crumbling around it.  A broad-shouldered man in a black cloak stood in the left-side gap, glowingly slightly blue through the dusty clouds and smoke.</p><p>“Med--”</p><p>Khadgar’s dry throat choked on a mouthful of dust.  The cloaked man closed the distance between them with an unnatural speed, moving more like a piece of dark fabric being carried by the wind than a mortal running across the ground with his feet.  Medivh crouched down, his pale, gaunt face looked back from the shadow of his hood.  Fear and uncertainty were not two emotions that the former Guardian wore well, and the combination of the two looked utterly terrifying in his normally sure, certain eyes.</p><p>“You’re hurt,” Medivh asserted, taking Khadgar’s jaw in his long, black-tipped fingers.  A chill spread outward across Khadgar’s face, coating it like a mask, filling his vision with a pale, teal-colored light.  When it dissipated, his throat was clear and the ache in his temple had abated.</p><p>“Ah, well,” Khadgar replied, his words slurring off his thick tongue as he did his best to shrug.  “No more than is to be expected after one is kidnapped by demons, I suppose.”</p><p>Medivh’s jaw clenched.  For a moment, his eyes blackened and a terrible shimmer rose up around him, lifting bits of debris and pebbles into the dusty air.  Fear tugged at Khadgar’s chest, but after a deep breath, Medivh’s temper calmed.  Before Khadgar had a chance to open his mouth again and utter more words of assurance, Medivh leaned forward and pressed their lips together in a deep kiss.  Khadgar stifled a groan and melted into the feeling of warmth from the other man’s hands running across his sore shoulders and sides, checking for bruises and twitching over broken ribs.</p><p>Medivh silently pulled back and looked up, bony fingers traveling up Khadgar’s arms.  His fingers tapped twice on the shackles, lips uttering a single volatile word that shattered the arcane locks.  Remnants of the spell fell around them like small red stars.  The Archmage sucked in his breath as his hands dropped, pins and needles filling his veins.  Before he could tumble sideways and curl up on the floor to rock through the paralysis, he found himself lifted instead into the air.  His knees swung over one of Medivh’s arms, his shoulders supported by the other's cradle.  Khadgar's head rested against the other man’s neck and he inhaled the scent of explosive arcane discharge and ash.</p><p>The former Guardian grunted as he adjusted Khadgar’s weight in his arms.  He then squared his stance and looked up towards the remains of the once fel-splattered ceiling.  His eyes glowed ice blue in the instant before he blew another hole in the demon fortress and ascended.</p>
<hr/><p>Khadgar was extremely happy to be dozing in a bed back in Karazhan, freshly washed and bandaged, the faint smell of healing herbs wafting from the wound dressings alongside the soothing lemon scent from the white candles that floated in the chamber air.  He had more comfortable pillows than he knew what to do with, and a decent-sized book open in his lap.  The Archmage found himself barely capable of reading more than a sentence at a time, though, his body more interested in dozing than ingesting and processing archaic text.</p><p>A creak at the door told him he had a visitor.  When he lifted his head, he was surprised to see not Moroes with more herbal tea but Medivh, dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, looking uncharacteristically disheveled.  His long black hair was tied in a loose ponytail over one shoulder, beard uncombed and in disarray.  He carried a bottle of spiced whiskey and two shot glasses in his hands.</p><p>“May I join you?”</p><p>Khadgar nodded and shifted over, patting the space in the mattress beside him.  Medivh padded across the floor and slid underneath the covers, casting a quick levitation spell to float the glasses in the air over their knees beneath the sheets as he poured.  Khadgar accepted the glass and sipped on its contents, enjoying the burning taste of sharp cinnamon down his throat while Medivh kicked his own back, pouring out a second.</p><p>“Were you really that concerned?” Khadgar asked.</p><p>Medivh said nothing, pushing the whiskey bottle into the air within arms’ reach as he slid down into the pillows, glaring at Khadgar’s book as he swirled the golden liquor in its glass.  Khadgar eased down as well, taking another couple of sips as he arranged the pages between them.  He was still too tired to read and after a moment slumped back against the pillows, letting his silver head rest on Medivh’s broad shoulder.</p><p>With a sweeping gesture, Medivh extinguished the candles, pointing a long finger towards the ceiling.  An illusion of the sky spread out above them, an inky-black expanse between the bedchamber’s floral-papered walls.  One by one, faint stars winked through the clouds, just as surely as the constellations outside.  They lay together, recounting mythology about the beasts and warriors immortalized in those heavens, until Khadgar drifted off into a deep, healing sleep.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Ace of Swords</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>August 29th - Reunion</p><p>Content warnings for blood and some body horror.  I decided to bump the rating of the entire fic collection to Mature and add a warning for graphic descriptions of violence because of this one.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Archmage Khadgar, Leader of the Kirin Tor, unofficial Guardian of Azeroth, stood within the confines of an ordinary walk-in closet.  His hands rested on his hips, while he stared at a dark jumble of assorted junk and heirlooms.  An enchanted light swayed above his head, the same color and shape of a gnomish or goblin incandescent bulb, except that it hung as a free entity, boundless of electricity.  Khadgar had been standing like this for quite some time, his brilliant mind at a complete stand-still, wondering how to approach the task which lay before him.  If a coherent thought crossed his mind, he quickly swatted them down, as it would inevitably turn towards assessing whether or not he would begin to cry.  Was he even still capable of crying, though?  For that matter, <i>when</i> was the last time he had cried, actually?  Would any of the ghosts that still haunted Karazahan still respect him if they chanced to drift through the walls and see him on the floor, weeping, unable to pull himself together to so much as conjure an enchanted dustpan to sweep the room of any evidence of its flaking age and neglect.</p><p>Khadgar tugged at the strings to his plain cotton tunic, opening the front to allow in some air as he swallowed and tried to get a grip on his mental state.  What would any of the Council of Six think if they could see him now, jaw clenching, blood-shot eyes watering, slouched with back pain, and utterly overwhelmed by the mundane task of <i>household cleaning</i>.</p><p>In the distance, a loud crash reverberated through the backroom.  It sounded like it had come from one of Karazhan’s distant halls.</p><p>Khadgar clenched his fists as he listened.  There was no question that his decision to return to this damned tower was a mistake.  His fellow members of the Council of Six had been so delighted to hear that their overworked leader, in the wake of the Burning Legion’s defeat, had decided to finally take, of all things, <i>a vacation</i>.  He managed to keep the destination a secret, he could not bear to see the looks of pity that would surely cross his colleague's faces when they learned that Archmage Khadgar planned to spend his year on sabbatical in service of the restoration of Karazhan.  They might have managed to talk him out of it, which was why he had said nothing and was smart enough to not attempt to lie.  He had hoped that, if nothing else, he could put to rest some skeletons in his emotional closet and finally, finally, <i>finally</i> get some peace and quiet…</p><p>Another loud thud, like a corpse being dragged down the staircase, reverberated down the halls.  It lasted for an almost comical length of time while Khadgar stood stock-still, grinding his teeth together.</p><p>The noises were a new addition to the tower's neverending pile of horrors.  Karazhan was never this noisy during Medivh’s tenure; nothing, living or dead, would have <i>dared</i> to make such a ruckus.  Khadgar was a different kind of master, apparently.  Nothing within the halls of the tower respected him.  They all remembered him as an apprentice, with long limbs and unkept mousy hair.  The respect they had for his incredible ability to stay alive only went so far and it had not been improved with his promotion to Leader of the Kirin Tor and questionable state as an almost-Guardian.</p><p>Khadgar stormed out of the closet, the light trailing after him like an obedient firefly.  He emerged into the main stairwell, placing the sole of one worn boot on top of the next stone step, head cocked to one side as he listened.  His fingers drummed against the rough surface of the grey stone wall.  After a moment, he began the journey upwards, taking the spiral steps two at a time, to the protest of his creaking knee joints.</p><p>Sometime later found him at the attic, where he came to an abrupt standstill, huffing and puffing.  There, the trapdoor that led to the topmost chamber was hanging open, its pull-chain dangling.  The tower was unspeakably old and it wasn’t uncommon for latches to loosen and their doors be taken by a stiff breeze from the gales that thrived in Deadwind Pass.  What was unusual was for the doors themselves to be utterly drenched in blood.</p><p>Khadgar crept across the mess, poking his head up through the trap-door entryway.  The attic was much the same as it had always been, covered in a thin layer of dust, trunks and odds and ends protected by white sheets.  His eye caught sight of the farthest window, the pane thrown open.  It appeared to be the source of the blood trail, the windowsill was smeared and there were bloody handprints on the cracked glass.  A flick of his wrist and a quick word shut the pane, putting a stop to the cold, wailing wind.</p><p>Khadgar followed the blood through a side door and into a series of side rooms.  These used to be the Master’s private chambers.  Khadgar hadn’t planned on so much as breathing near them for at least a month or two while he adjusted to the bitter memories of his last residency, but here he was, tip-toeing around bloodstains on the decorative carpet and floorboards, shutting drawers and doors as he went.  Something had been groping its way around, and rather sloppily at that.  Khadgar wrinkled his nose as he noted the grand piano in the corner was also smeared from what looked like a concerto that had an extremely poor end.  It was a wonder he hadn’t heard the keys being disturbed.</p><p>Khadgar reached into the air and with a flex of his fingers summoned Atiesh into his waiting palm.  He gripped the rough wooden stem to his chest as he approached the washroom on not-so-silent footsteps.  He riffled through a number of possibilities.  Perhaps a highly intelligent but injured gargoyle had landed in the attic and was now crawling around looking for food or a place to die, whichever it found first.  The last thing he expected to find was Medivh standing at the sink basin, chin tilted up as if he were shaving while he stitched his head back onto his body at the neck.</p><p>For a moment, Khadgar could only sit on his heels and watch.  He did not blink.  He did not breathe.  Not a single, solitary thought ran through his mind as he observed the lamp light glint off the needle between Medivh’s black-nailed fingers.  The former guardian was stark naked, blood dribbling down from not just the wound through his severed neck but an all-to-familiar gash that cut right through the center of his ribs.</p><p>“Are you just going to sit there, Young Trust,” Medivh’s lips barely moved as he spoke, his voice barely a whisper, eyes still glued to his own gaunt reflection in the flecked, polished mirror. “Or are you going to answer the door?”</p><p>Khadgar would be hard-pressed to say what he expected the first thing Medivh, back from the dead, would say to him, but this would not be remotely close to one of them.</p><p>“I beg your pardon?” For reasons Khadgar could not explain, he was speaking in a hushed tone as well.</p><p>“The door,” Medivh repeated, face unflinching as he focused on jabbing the tip of the needle into a fresh flap of skin. “Would you please attend to it?  I fear Moroes will turn my guest away.”</p><p>It took longer than Khadgar would care to admit for his sluggish mind to process the request.  But he did, at last, and Khadgar rose to his feet, using Atiesh to steady himself.  He used the staff like a cane as he crossed the bedchamber, heading for the dumbwaiter door.  He slid open the panel, silver hair ruffling as he exposed the drafty, stale shaft.  With a gesture of his wrist that was not unlike hanging up a coat on a hanger, Atiesh disappeared.</p><p>Khadgar dipped his chin towards his clavicle and his body shifted, tiny bumps spreading across his skin, nose and mouth hardening as they fused together and elongated.  The tiny bumps individually split and from each protruded delicate, white feather.  His blue eyes rounded as optic nerves sharpened beneath the film.  A moment later, a small, white raven dove down into the depths of the darkness.</p><p>Khadgar emerged from the lowermost dumbwaiter door at the base of the tower, in the kitchens.  He flew down the hall and into the main foyer, where there was, indeed, someone or something knocking on the great wooden doors.  Khadgar initiated the shift back into his human form, forgetting to conjure his boots in his rush to re-clothe himself in his cleaning tunic and breeches as he stumbled towards the doors.  A peek through the observation hole brought a discerning vision of a mysterious cloaked figure trying to escape from the rain by huddling underneath the shallow awning.  Even more worrisome was the fact that Khadgar could not make out any details of the individual’s face.  Whoever they were, something about their aura was interfering with the enchantments in the peephole.  The enchantments were intended to discern useful things such as the visitor’s school of magic and whether their intentions were benign or hostile.  Whatever type of magic this visitor channeled, it interfered with the delicate resonance of the arcane runes, much like static going through a gnomish radio.</p><p>Khadgar muttered a benign curse under his breath before unlocking the door and pushing it open a crack, just enough to see the visitor with his own two eyes.</p><p>The mortal was tall and slender, hunched over within the damp wool of a brown, rain-soaked cloak.  Red, smoking eyes peered back at Khadgar from the shadows cast by the hood.  A voice in the back of the Archmage’s mind said <i>dragon</i> and he kicked himself for not recognizing the pattern earlier.  Then he realized why.  This was an earth dragon, a member of the Black Dragonflight.  Khadgar’s fingers twitched as he reached out with a spell, searching for signs of corruption.  He found nothing but clarity.</p><p>The dragon’s brows furrowed in annoyance, his mouth pursuing into a thin line.</p><p>“Now that you have reassured yourself of my lack of corruption,” the dragon spoke, voice lilting with faint sarcasm. “Can you tell me, is this the tower of Karazhan?”</p><p>“...it is,” Khadgar said, feeling as if his own voice came from miles away, spoken by some other man who was more capable of handling both himself and the situation. “And you are?”</p><p>“Very cold,” the dragon admitted. “And damp.  It’s quite unpleasant, actually, being out in this rain.”</p><p>Khadgar tried to close the door only to find the dragon had stuck the front of his gold-embroidered boot through the gap, preventing him from doing so.</p><p>“I would prefer an answer to my question,” Khadgar requested.</p><p>“Very well,” the dragon replied with a sigh. “I am known as the Black Prince.  You may call me Wrathion.”</p><p>“Wrathion,” Khadgar repeated. “Right.  Well, please do come in, Black Prince.”</p><p>The Archmage opened the door fully, stepping aside to give the visitor a wide berth as he strode into the foyer.  As he moved, Wrathion’s hands emerged from the folds of his sopping wet cloak to draw back his hood.  Shoulder-length, curled dark hair spilled out, along with two gold hoop earrings.  He trailed thick puddles of rainwater as he moved, boots squelching and tracking mud.  Khadgar’s fingers itched to hold Atiesh, but he decided to refrain from summoning the staff for the moment.</p><p>“What brings you to Karazhan, Your Highness?” Khadgar asked, eyeing the Prince’s elegant but filthy boots with disdain.</p><p>Wrathion’s fingers moved in a strange, elegant gesture and red sparks fizzled between the clawed tips of his gloves.  The mud was now gone, but the water remained, hissing steam from the floor and the damp cloth.  Wrathion pursed his lips in frustration, squinting up at the walls of the foyer.</p><p>“I received a summons,” Wrathion’s voice sounded distant and distracted as his sharp eyes swept around the room.  Khadgar could not discern what kind of information the dragon was gleaning about Karazhan’s sorcery. “From the master of this place.  He instructed me to come at my earliest convenience.  Which, clearly, is now.”</p><p>“Right,” Khadgar said, hands once again coming to rest on his hips. “Well, the master is a bit...”</p><p>Khadgar did not speak for a full minute and a half.  The dragon waited patiently, brows raised slightly in a perplexed but not unkind expression.</p><p>“Would you care for some tea while you wait?” Khadgar asked, instead.</p><p>“Certainly.”</p><p>Khadgar could handle making tea.  He grounded himself in the simple act of brewing a handful black leaves in an ornate iron kettle, conjuring small frosted mana cakes and buttery madeleines sprinkled in powdered sugar.  The Archmange proceeded to help the dragon get settled in front of a roaring fireplace in the downstairs parlor.  This room contained the least amount of secrets for the dragon to discover when he inevitably became bored and started to poke around the bookshelves.  Khadgar returned to the kitchen and with a rustle of white feathers, ascended the tower again.</p><p>Medivh was exactly where Khadgar had left him in the washroom.  He had switched to stitching up the gash in his chest, chapped lips parting with the occasional rasp of pain.  Khadgar found himself strangely afraid of speaking.</p><p>“Did the dragon arrive safely?” Medivh asked, throat pressing oddly against the stitched wound when he swallowed.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Would you come over here and help me?” Medivh’s eyes flickered towards Khadgar’s in the mirror. “I am unable to reach the back of my own neck, of course.”</p><p>It took Khadgar a moment to realize just what Medivh was asking, but the weight of it eventually sank in.  Khadgar stepped forward, rolling up the light grey sleeves of his tunic and fastening them with garters around his upper arms.  His deft fingers brushed back Medivh’s long, dark hair, matted with blood, gathering it in a loose ponytail before conjuring a plain black hair tie.  He wound the bundle and secured it in an untidy bun near the peak of the former Guardian’s skull.  With the neck unencumbered, Khadgar was able to locate the needle still dangling from the end of its medicinal thread underneath the last stitch made below the mage’s left ear.</p><p>Medivh’s skin felt strange.  He seemed to have gained some color from when Khadgar last saw him, before the Black Prince’s arrival, but it felt cold and clammy.  It bled less than it should have when Khadgar stuck the needle through.  Mages were useless with healing spells, but he did his best to close the wound, as if he were mending one of his shirts.</p><p>“I will need to cook a kind of paste,” Medivh explained. “And apply it to the wounds daily, so that they may heal.  In the meantime, I should take care to not turn my neck too quickly, and also of hitting my forehead on low shelves.”</p><p>He said this in a matter-of-fact way, as if he were making a list of things to clean the way Khadgar had done earlier.  The Archmage continued to make his way all the way around the back of Medivh’s neck.  His fingers were shaking and unsteady; the stitches were not nearly as neat as the ones Medivh himself had done over the front of his own throat.  When Khadgar finished, he cut the thread with his teeth and tied it off in a neat knot.  Medivh took the needle and with a pinch it disappeared.</p><p>Khadgar wordlessly stepped over to the bath and turned the old, brass knobs.  After a moment, water gushed through the end of the faucet, accompanied by clouds of hot steam.  With a gesture, Khadgar cracked the window in the washroom, letting in a bit of the cool evening breeze.  He poured in a generous dollop of honey-thick, scented oil from a green glass bottle sitting beside the tub and soon he could almost forget the metallic scent of blood clogging his nostrils.  He turned to find Medivh watching him, looking exhausted.</p><p>“Thank you,” the former Guardian said.</p><p>Khadgar stepped aside to let the mage slip in the bath with an exhausted groan.  The younger mage dragged a stool across the old, cracked tiles, next to the side of the tub, and sank down with a grunt, resting his hands on his aching knees.  For the first time, Khadgar allowed himself to take in the full breadth of Medivh.  The former Guardian looked gaunt, bones pressing taught against his sallow skin.  The profile was distinctly his, hawkish nose and nearly full, pointed beard.  He moved more or less the way he’d always done, with sure, steady movements, albeit quite a bit slower.</p><p>“Are you here to stay?” Khadgar asked, after a moment.</p><p>Medivh nodded, dark eyes staring back.  Wisps of his hair were falling out of the messy bun around his face.</p><p>“For how long?”</p><p>Medivh considered. “Quite a while, I should think.  I have a great deal of work to do.”</p><p>“I see.”</p><p>Another minute passed, bringing the sound of distant thunder rolling somewhere beyond the horizon.  Khadgar raised his palm and conjured a fresh bar of soap and a violet-colored washcloth, which Medivh accepted.  The former master lathered up the soap as if he were becoming used to the sight of suds again, seemingly transfixed by the prismatic reflection of light off the soap film.</p><p>“I have been watching,” Medivh explained as he began to scrub dirt and dried blood from his skin. “From beyond...the veil, I suppose, to simplify it.  There is something coming, something that is a far greater threat to Azeroth than the Burning Legion.”</p><p>This news filled Khadgar with a brief, terrible moment of despair, a feeling which he proceeded to fold up and flick into the wind, where it was taken away like a stray scrap of parchment.</p><p>“That dragon is destined to save Azeroth from an old and immeasurable horror,” Medivh continued, as if he had not driven a stake through the heart of Khadgar’s year on sabbatical. “I do not know if he needs...help, per say.  He is viciously brilliant and self-reliant.  Not to mention, of course, one day he will inherit the mantle of Earth-Warder and it will be the duty of the Black Dragonflight to guard the Titan once again...but, he is young and inexperienced and I would rather not like to chance it.”</p><p>“Why?” Khadgar asked, his voice dull. “Why are you still so concerned with Azeroth, considering that you do...you were not a part of it anymore?”</p><p>Medivh paused, the soap and the cloth disappearing beneath the murky surface of the bathwater.  His eyes stared back at Khadgar, haunted and rimmed with dark bruises.</p><p>“Well, because you are still here,” he said, his voice quiet. “Of course.”</p><p>Khadgar opened his mouth.  When no words came out, he closed it again.  His eyes felt unbearably hot and the vision of Medivh in the tub blurred into a greasy smear.  The Archmage folded his arms over the slicke edge of the porcelain bath and he let his upper body slump, so that his eyes pressed into his forearms.  His shoulders shook and his chest heaved as the quiet washroom was filled with only the sound of his erratic gasps and water banging through the pipes.</p><p>Medivh’s hand came down to stroke his unkempt, silver-grey hair until the mage wore himself out from sobbing.  At last, Khadgar lifted his head and clasped Medivh’s thin hand between both of his.  He pressed his lips to the bony knuckles and kissed them over and over again, until the warmth from his body had transferred into the thin, gaunt skin.  Somewhere, far below, as the mages exchanged tentative, gentle kisses over the rim of the bathtub, the dragon had fallen into a fitful sleep in front of the fire.</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. The World</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>August 30th - Coffee / Study</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Archmage Khadgar found something incredibly satisfying in the simple act of preparing food with his own two hands.  The mage’s vast intellect contained a multitude of spells for conjuring all manner of edible items: cakes, meat pies, tofu, butter.  None of these items would taste the same as they would if he had prepared them with his own two hands using ingredients that were grown and processed solely in the mortal realm.  Herbs and spices were the most notoriously difficult to replicate, it took years of intense study to get them right.  Khadgar had the aptitude to do it, but the first thing he did upon returning to Karazhan was set about re-establishing a garden so that he wouldn’t have to.</p><p>Khadgar started by filling the kitchens with simple planters.  He grew plenty of crisp green sprigs of things like parsley, basil, oregano, and mint to pluck whenever he needed.  Bulbs of garlic strung between cabinets and the windowsill was lined with rosemary and thyme.  A small bush of chamomile could be plucked for soothing evening tea.  A few spider plants made their way into the kitchen as well, not because they were edible but because the Archmage rather liked the way their long, creeping leaves draped over bare shelves and cabinets, making the space seem less empty.  Watering everything became Khadgar’s morning routine, something to help him roll off the last traces of sleep from his limbs.</p><p>Once the kitchen had restored Khadgar’s confidence in his green thumbs, he turned his attention to the outdoors. He tilled a patch of dirt near the stables, hoping to experiment with spring green beans, potatoes, and summer tomatoes.  During an expedition of the grounds, he found bunches of wild rhubarb between the roots of several trees.  The sweet and sour blueberry bushes he discovered in a field over the hill would perhaps return after a year or two, given time and persistent care to remove the rot from the branches.  His long-term sights were set on growing wheat.  He wanted to bake his own fresh bread again.</p><p>Coffee was a delicate matter.  Khadgar wasn’t quite ready to tie his ability to access caffeine to his ability to grow coffee beans, so he made a trip back to the city each month to spend too much coin at a favorite coffee shop down the road from the Violet Citadel.  He would bring back burlap bags of roasted beans and grind them in a little crank-turned device he kept next to the kettle on the sink.  If someone were to ask him, he would have to say that one of his favorite scents in the world was the nutty aroma of those bitter grinds sitting in the bottom of the glass press the moment before he added the boiling water.  After steeping for five or ten minutes, the brew would be ready.</p><p>One evening late in October, found Khadgar executing such a process, inhaling deeply as he pressed the grounds down and poured the brew into an insulated thermos.  He screwed the lid on and slid the entire thing into his infinite-depth satchel.  He was dressed in a pair of sturdy boots and had a long, thick sweater over his tunic with a pair of common breeches.  The spellthread had a heat-insulating enchantment on it, ensuring that he would be warm in the night chill.</p><p>Khadgar donned his cloak, pinning the silver-owl shaped clasp, and ascended to Medivh’s study, where a lavender portal was waiting, singing gently, in the center of the dark room.  Stepping through, his ears buzzed and grey hair ruffled with the familiar tingle of arcane energy.  On the other side, the dark expanse of a moonlit hill in Darkshire greeted him, bordered by the dark, twisted trees of the forest.  Khadgar awkwardly climbed over the iron railing into the graveyard, making his way between the old, crooked tombstones.  Khadgar did not pray but he kept his head bowed respectfully as he ascended the crest of the hill, taking note of various death dates and decorative carvings.  Here was a skeleton angel.  There was a pair of interlocking anatomically-correct hearts.</p><p>At the top of the hill, he found Medivh lying on his stomach, spread out across a blanket, thick black robes billowing out around his legs.  He had his hands cupped around his eyes, as if he were holding a pair of invisible binoculars up to his face.  Instead of a physical device, Medivh was maintaining a magnification enchantment between the curl of his palms and fingers, its faint yellow light illuminating the grass in front of them.  Over the horizon, Khadgar could see faint traces of blue-green ghosts gathered in the valley below,  walking amongst the wild lavender flowers.  </p><p>Khadgar slid down next to the former Guardian, crossing his legs in front of him.  He pulled his satchel into the little nest made by his tucked legs and began to unload some of its many contents.  First he produced the thermos and two hand-molded, glazed clay mugs.  </p><p>“Have they begun the dance, yet?” Khadgar asked, arranging the mugs on a flat part of the ground in front of them.</p><p>Medivh shook his head, eyes still glued to peering down at the scene between his hands. “No.  They seem to be waiting for a few stragglers.”</p><p>Khadgar poured out the coffee, leaving a small space for cream sweetened with vanilla, the next bottle he withdrew from his satchel.  The brew in the mugs turned a pleasant gingerbread color with the addition, Khadgar using a heating enchantment to keep the contents warm.  He sprinkled cinnamon and nutmeg on the tops of both from two spice jars.  When Khadgar was satisfied, he offered one to his former master.</p><p>“Ah, thank you,” Medivh let the binocular spell drop and picked up the cup, turning it between his long, black-tipped fingers as he sniffed and tested the temperature. “Brewed to perfection, as usual.”</p><p>“Careful, too much praise might go to my head,” Khadgar remarked dryly as he blushed in the dark, lifting his own cup to his lips.  The pleasant boost of caffeine jolted through him.</p><p>“I enjoy this strange thing you do to it,” Medivh said after a sip. “With the cream and spices.  Sometimes you put honey in it as well?”</p><p>“Mm,” Khadgar hummed in agreement, leaning back on his palm as he drank and watched the green whisps below. “It depends on my mood, I suppose.”</p><p>“And whipped cream?”</p><p>A smile tugged at the corner of Khadgar’s mouth. “Would you like some?”</p><p>Medivh shook his head, already gulping down half of the mug. “Oh no, I was just recalling the one time you did such a thing, with the drizzle of chocolate on top.”</p><p>“Yes, they call that a ‘mocha’ in the city.”</p><p>“I suppose Dalaran had to be good for something,” Medivh grumbled. “Ah, look, they seem to be gathering.”</p><p>The transparent figures were beginning to arrange themselves in a perfect circle, standing no more than an arm’s length apart.  Khadgar reached into the satchel and produced a flat, round tin.  He opened the lid to reveal stacks of small frosted cakes and lemon poppyseed scones.</p><p>“Excellent,” Medivh’s fingers shot into the and plucked a chocolate square, popping the entire thing into his mouth.  In the dark, Khadgar watched with delight as the former Guardian’s eyes widened for just the briefest moment.  The Archmage tried to commit the moonlight sight to memory, it was rare indeed to see Medivh taken by surprise.</p><p>“Did you bake these yourself?” Medivh asked, staring at his crumb-dusted fingertips in awe.</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Medivh’s pleased cackle, like a raven who had found a plump berry to steal, brought a real smile to Khadgar’s face and a blush to his cheeks.  The mage pushed himself into a sitting position and brought his mug with him as he scooted closer to Khadgar, balancing the ceramic piece between his knees.</p><p>“So clever,” Medivh said, teasingly as he ran his hand through Khadgar’s hair, brushing his thumb in circles around the base of the Archmage’s spine.</p><p>Khadgar turned to find Medivh’s face was close, watching him with a strange admiration.</p><p>“...what did I say about letting compliments go to my head?” Khadgar managed, his mouth strangely sticky and dry.</p><p>Medivh took Khadgar’s chin between the tips of his fingers and pulled him in closer for a kiss, sweetened by the taste of coffee and sugar on their tongues.</p><p>“I promise I won’t tell a soul if you do every now and then,” Medivh replied, after they pulled apart.</p><p>Khadgar hid his smile in another sip from his mug, taking up a scone with his free hand.  Together, he and Medivh sat beneath the stars, watching the ghosts of Darkshire as they spun and turned in their danse macabre, until the first rays of the morning sun peered over the treeline and caused them to scatter.</p>
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